


Every Man Is King

by breathtaken



Series: Love Me, Love My Dog [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Otherkin, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Well?” Aramis demands, once it becomes clear Athos isn’t actually going to volunteer any information.</i>
</p><p><i>“Alright,” Athos says to himself, before looking across at the sofa. “Okay. I’m not going to explain anything. But if either of you make him feel weird about </i>anything<i> at all, I will kill you in your sleep.”</i></p><p>
  <i>Porthos frowns. “Weird about what?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“About,” Athos replies distinctly, “any of the things that I’m not going to explain to you.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Man Is King

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to everyone who’s ever described d’Artagnan as a puppy. Let's call it my own contribution to the meme...

_"To his dog, every man is king; hence the constant popularity of dogs." - Aldous Huxley_

* * *

 

As with far too many things in his life, Aramis decides much later, it started as a joke.

It started as a joke – Porthos, he thinks it was, though really it could have been any of them – and it stuck. It was extremely well-observed really, the combination of d’Artagnan’s relative youth, natural exuberance and tendency towards easy affection,  not to mention the then still painfully evident pining after his very taken ex-housemate, had Aramis and Porthos using d’Artagnan’s new nickname with easily as much affection as mockery – and even Athos seemed to disapprove a little less than usual.

Once they’d established that d’Artagnan genuinely didn’t mind, appearing to take the teasing as a sign of his acceptance into the admittedly weirdly interdependent relationship the three of them – now four of them – had, it quickly became everyday, and Aramis didn’t think about it for a long time after that.

It wasn’t until he was wrapping the Christmas presents in his room one late December evening, artfully scrawling ‘Puppy’ across the paper in permanent marker, that he realised he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d called d’Artagnan by his name.

And if d’Artagnan was a little different when he came back to the house after New Year – a little down, a little subdued – Aramis didn’t think anything of it. With the exception of Christmas, he’s always despised the entire October to March period himself, spends it stealing Porthos’ hoodies and muttering about what a damn fool he was to decide it was a good idea to move up north – until Athos or Porthos unfailingly remind him that Paris is where the actual jobs are, and he’s forced into sulky silence for a while. No, he’s never expected that anyone would actually _enjoy_ winter, and so if something was going on with d’Artagnan even then, he didn’t pick up on it.

Perhaps if he had, he wouldn’t have done what he did.

Then again, knowing himself as he does, he can’t be so sure.

It’s March when he finds the collar – during a sugar-fuelled fit of weekend spring cleaning, lying dusty behind his bed; and after a few moments of confused staring he connects it to the memory of an unusually skinny goth boy from somewhere last autumn, who’d been as boring as fuck to talk to but had had a big, expressive mouth that looked just beautiful around Aramis’ cock.

At the time he thought the collar, with its series of small, round spikes, had been a bit too much – but now he finds himself turning it over consideringly in his hand, grinning a little, before putting it on his bookshelf out of harm’s way, with the air of one valiantly resisting temptation.

He decides he’ll at least wait until they’re all drunk.

Aramis’ opportunity comes, unexpectedly, three days later, when all their various unpleasant shift patterns align for that rarest of events: an evening off for all for of them, with nobody having to get up at the arse-crack of dawn the next morning. They’ve all eaten approximately their own body weight in pizza and the booze is flowing freely when Aramis remembers to make a side-trip to his bedroom on the way back from the toilet, and comes back into the living room with one hand behind his back.

“Present for you, Puppy,” he says, smirking with satisfaction as he holds out the collar.

If pressed, Aramis would have said he was probably expecting d’Artagnan to roll his eyes and say, “Ha ha” – or if he’s feeling particularly obliging, maybe even to wear it for them for half an hour or so.

What he definitely _isn’t_ expecting is for d’Artagnan to stare at the collar in Aramis’ hand like he’s just been struck with it; before muttering, “Excuse me,” as he gets quickly to his feet and pushes his way from the room.

“What –”

Mouth hanging open, Aramis looks between the other two for an explanation; and while Porthos is shrugging his shoulders, Athos is already getting up from his chair. “You –” he jabs a finger at Aramis – “sit the fuck down. I’ll go see if he’s okay.”

As Athos strides from the room, Aramis turns back to Porthos, sinking down onto the sofa beside him, uncharacteristically silent.

“What the fuck did you do?” Porthos asks, in a tone that implies _this time._

“I have no idea,” Aramis replies, curling up against his side and tucking his feet under him. Porthos always smells good. Calming. Laundry detergent and a hint of cigarette smoke. “He – he doesn’t mind. _Athos_ calls him Puppy. He wouldn’t do that if he minded.”

Though Aramis has once or twice observed the train wreck that is Athos’ personal life up close, he knows in his bones that when it comes to taking care of anyone who’s _not_ himself, Aramis trusts him fully and without hesitation. He could believe that he alone had misstepped here, maybe even that Porthos had – but never Athos.

“Well, we’ll see,” Porthos replies, taking a swig of his beer – just as he catches the expression on Aramis’ face. “No.”

“Please?” Aramis replies, just about resisting the temptation to actually flutter his eyelashes.

“Seriously? Your timing’s fucking appalling. Athos told us to stay here,” Porthos points out; and Aramis shrugs in concession, leaning into Porthos a little closer and smiling again when Porthos’ arm comes round his shoulders.

When Athos eventually comes back into the room (after what Aramis decides is an _age_ ), it’s to slump into the armchair without a word, pour himself a fresh glass of wine from the bottle beside him and drain it in under a minute.

“Well?” Aramis demands, once it becomes clear Athos isn’t actually going to volunteer any information.

“Alright,” Athos says to himself, before looking across at the sofa. “Okay. I’m not going to explain anything. But if either of you make him feel weird about _anything_ at all, I will kill you in your sleep.”

Porthos frowns. “Weird about what?”

“About,” Athos replies distinctly, “any of the things that I’m not going to explain to you.”

“Right. Let me get this straight,” Aramis picks up, “we need to _not_ fuck up, but you refuse to tell us what constitutes a fuck-up. Well, thank you Athos. Very helpful of you.”

He’s grumbling, but Aramis knows there’s no getting any information out of Athos when he doesn’t feel inclined to divulge it.

And though he’d never admit as much, he _does_ trust that Athos has the situation in hand.

“Should we stop calling him Puppy then?” Porthos asks.

“No,” Athos replies, “that’s fine – but Aramis, no more surprise gifts.”

They all look up at the sudden sound of footsteps on the stairs – before Aramis remembers they’re supposed to be behaving normally, and attempts to steal Porthos’ beer out of his hand instead of going to the kitchen to get himself a new one; and following the ensuing scuffle, that ends with Aramis pinned to the sofa and Porthos holding his beer aloft like a trophy, Aramis looks over to notice that they’ve left d’Artagnan with nowhere to sit, and that he’s ended up cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, in front of Athos’ chair.

“Oh, sorry Puppy, we’ll make some space,” he says, fighting his way up from under Porthos’ arm and swinging his body round into a sitting position.

But d’Artagnan doesn’t move, or speak, just looks awkwardly away and down at the floor; instead it’s Athos who says, “No, he’s fine here.”

“Alright,” Aramis replies, biting down on the temptation to ask why d’Artagnan’s not speaking to him, reminding himself that _we mustn’t make him feel weird_ , or he can expect to meet with a swift and terrible death at Athos’ hands. “Can I get you a beer?”

“Please,” Athos replies for him again – and when Aramis comes back with a fresh beer from the kitchen it’s Athos who holds out his hand to take it, before handing it down to d’Artagnan, who accepts it without a word; and Aramis sits deliberately on Porthos’ lap and pretends not to notice the way Athos’ hand comes to rest gently on the top of d’Artagnan’s head, and stays there.

Things happen by degrees after that, and Aramis and Porthos slowly learn the unspoken rules: that d’Artagnan doesn’t talk when he’s sitting on the floor; that they shouldn’t _ignore_ him exactly but also shouldn’t try and include him in conversation; that the way Athos speaks to him sometimes in short, sharp commands is not deliberate rudeness on his part, but actually appears to be welcomed.

Given who Aramis is, it takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure it out.

“This is a sex thing, isn’t it?” he announces one morning when the other two are at work, plonking himself down on the sofa and staring accusingly at Athos. Annoyed, though he’s not sure why.

“Yes and no,” Athos replies, putting his crossword down on the coffee table with the air of one who’s being very rudely interrupted right now. “It is a kink thing, but it’s not a sex thing, as such.”

“Right,” Aramis replies, his mind racing through the back catalogue of everything he’s observed – imagining Athos hitting the kid with a rolled-up newspaper for a moment, and having to stifle the completely inappropriate urge to laugh – before snagging on one particular point.

“If he wants to wear the collar around the house, then he should.”

“I’ll pass it on,” Athos replies, with a minute twitch of the mouth that Aramis has worked out over the years is the Athos equivalent of a smile. “Though I might replace it with something a little more appropriate.”

Aramis nods, deciding he’s glad he never told Athos exactly how that particular collar came into his possession.

“Does he –?”

He flounders for a moment under Athos’ enquiring gaze, looking for the appropriate phrasing.

Though he’s not sure there _is_ an appropriate way to ask someone if he should also be treating their housemate as if he’s a dog.

In the end, he settles on something suitably vague: “Can we help?”

Athos tilts his head, subjecting Aramis to a few moments of silent scrutiny before nodding to himself and reaching for his coffee again. “Actually, I think you can.”

They say a dog can’t serve more than one master, but Aramis decides over the weeks that follow that as long as the masters in question aren’t sending out conflicting signals left right and centre, it does seem to work out okay after all. It certainly helps that they all seem to want something slightly different from their puppy, or rather, want to _give_ something different: while Athos’ method of engagement mostly involves having d’Artagnan sit quietly at his feet, the collar d’Artagnan eventually starts to sport is a gorgeous wide strip of chocolate-brown leather that looks handmade, with a ring at the front that seems to Aramis as though it’s begging for a matching lead.

Aramis already knew that Porthos misses the stream of ready-made little brothers and sisters he had in the care home, and he can tell the first time he sees Porthos tackle d’Artagnan to the ground and tickle him mercilessly that it’s good for him to have someone upon whom he can lavish that same kind of physical affection.

And as for Aramis himself – well, he did a lot of research right after his conversation with Athos, and while most of what he learned really isn’t suitable for someone he isn’t fucking, he’s got enough ideas of little things they can try out together and see how they work.

Not everything does work perfectly, of course: it’s difficult to find chew toys that are squishy enough to be safe for human teeth, and the one he does find d’Artagnan never seems particularly interested in anyway, much preferring the chocolate buttons that Aramis has taken to slipping him whenever Athos isn’t looking. But it’s easier than he’d thought for a human to drink from a bowl, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find that having d’Artagnan’s head resting on his knee as Aramis scratches behind his ear fills him with some of the same warm satisfaction that he imagines d’Artagnan’s feeling himself.

One evening when it’s just him and d’Artagnan at home, unwinding with a first person shooter, he takes the opportunity to ask, “So how did you figure it out?”

D’Artagnan hits pause and puts down his controller before taking a long sip of his beer, as if he’s working out where to start. “I always had dogs, growing up,” he replies. “I pretty much thought I was one of them. Never really got the hang of being the master. And I missed them something rotten when I came here, I missed _everything_ really, and when I went home for Christmas and then came back again it was even worse. I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. And then you gave me that collar and I just – got hit with all the things I felt like I’d lost.”

Aramis reaches out to give his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “And that was how it started?”

“Yeah. I wanted to put it on. The collar. More than anything. And I was drunk and upset and I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, that I wanted to recreate my childhood that badly – and then Athos knocked on my door and I ended up telling him everything.” D’Artagnan laughs mirthlessly. “And he just listened, to all of it, and then he asked… what was stopping me? I didn’t have it all figured out then. Not by a long shot.”

Aramis gives a low whistle. “It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it,” he remarks, wondering if there’s even more to Athos’ notoriously private character than he’d realised.

“Well, I’m glad,” d’Artagnan replies. “I’m not sure I’d ever have made proper sense of it by myself. I’d have just Googled it and then scared myself shitless.”

Aramis smiles. “I think we’ve probably been on some of the same websites.” He takes a thoughtful sip of his beer. “Look – if there’s anything you think of, do ask, whatever it is. We’ll figure it out. And you’re not going to shock me, at least, though I can’t say as much for Porthos’ delicate sensibilities.”

D’Artagnan laughs at that, as Aramis was hoping he would. “I will do. Thank you. For everything.”

Aramis reaches out to gently ruffle d’Artagnan’s hair. “Don’t mention it, Puppy.”

When d’Artagnan doesn’t roll his eyes or flip him off but just hums in contentment, Aramis moves his hand down to scratch a little just behind his ear; and in very little time at all he ends up with d’Artagnan stretched out along the length of the sofa with his head in Aramis’ lap, Aramis’ hand rubbing circles along his side through his jumper until he falls asleep, the video game entirely forgotten.

A short while later Aramis hears the front door open and close; and hisses out a pre-emptive “Shh!” as Athos pokes his head round the living room door, briefly assessing the situation before disappearing and reappearing two minutes later with a full glass of wine.

“It’s a dog’s life, isn’t it?” Aramis remarks quietly, smoothing d’Artagnan’s hair back from his face.

“Aramis. That’s literally the opposite of what that expression means,” Athos replies, equally quietly, rolling his eyes as he drops backwards into his armchair, fishing a discarded biro out from under his arse a second later.

“Still,” Aramis replies, undaunted. “My point is, he makes it look rather attractive. I’m almost tempted to have a go myself.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Athos warns immediately, pointing a finger at him for emphasis. “I couldn’t handle you as well as him. Not even if you paid me.”

“No, I’m probably too stubborn to take to it,” Aramis concedes. “Anyway. We all have our own ways of feeling like we belong.”

He thinks it’s too much for a moment, but Athos lets him get away with it, just raising his glass in a silent toast; and Aramis reaches for his beer again, absent-mindedly rubbing d’Artagnan’s stomach with the other hand as he sleeps on.

 _Fuck Athos and his pedantry_ , Aramis decides; this is their puppy’s life, and for as long as he wants it.


End file.
